Rise To Fame

Chapter 13

Trigger Warning: Mention and description of self harm

(Y/n's POV)

I march out of the flat, not caring that my top's torn or my hair's a mess or my makeup's ratty and uneven.

He shouts after me but I ignore him.

I just want to get away.

I walk and I walk, not really paying attention to where I'm going.

Somehow, I end up at the studio, where I'd left my car the night before. Thankfully, I always keep some spare clothes in the car, plus makeup, a hairbrush, and other things I might need in an emergency.

Some of the crew are already here, setting up for a day of filming. So I have to keep my head down as I take my bag to the bathroom.

I change my clothes, fix my makeup and put my hair up in a clip.

I then dig a small tin out from the bottom of my bag.

I packed this tin a long time ago. Swore to myself that I wouldn't ever use what was in it, no matter how bad things got. Not again.

I touch my thigh over my jeans, remember the feel of his hands last night as he forced my legs apart.

I close my eyes as angry tears start to spill.

My hands shake, which just makes the tin rattle. Like it's calling, begging to be let out.

Deep breath in.

I open the lid, and the blade inside shines in the off-white bathroom light.

It's a blade I took from a sharpener. It took me ages to dismantle it, I couldn't find a small enough screwdriver anywhere. In the end, I'd stood on it to break the plastic around it and taken the screw out like that. Then it was free. Now it sits in my tin, on top of antiseptic wipes and plasters.

I take a few moments just to look at it, really let it sink in what I'm about to do. I can't have a repeat of last time. Last time, once I'd started, I couldn't stop.

But I'll be fine. I can control the urge.

Or at least curb it a little.

Hands now steady, I pick up the blade and roll up the sleeve of my left arm. I brace myself for the pain before I drag the blade along my skin.

It's euphoric as the beads of blood dot my forearm.... But it's not enough.

I go higher.

And harder.

Each slice brings a fresh sting. A fresh distraction. The relief tingles inside before it fizzes away.

I cut again and again until I go too deep on and and the blood runs in a steady stream down my arm and drips into the sink.

That's when I know it's time to stop.

I remove the wipes from the tin and slowly wipe it over the cuts, bringing a new wave of pain but removing the blood from my arm.

There's the one cut that won't stop bleeding, so I put a small piece of gauze over the wound and secure a plaster over the top.

All that's left is the angry red lines that litter my arm.

I pull my sleeve back down to hide the evidence, check my appearance in the broken mirror and leave the bathroom.

And there he is.

(Jamie's POV)

She leaves the bathroom and stops when she sees me standing there.

I scan her over. Fresh face, clean clothes. But on closer inspection, I see the tiredness under her eyes, the slight bruising of finger marks around her neck and the red stain of dried blood on the palm of her hand.

I quickly walk over to her before she can walk away.

"Come with me," I say and grab her arm, but drop it like it's fire when she lets out a cry of pain.

She holds her arm close to her chest.

I look at it, and the blood on her hand, and my eyes widen as I put two and two together.

I feel my eyes harden with anger, and I'm certain she can see it.

"Come with me. Now."

(Y/n's POV)

I know I have no choice but to follow him.

He takes me to one of the empty dressing rooms at the back of the studio and shuts the door behind him.

"Pull up your sleeve."

I glare at him darkly.

"Pull. Up. Your. Sleeve."

"No."

He sighs and presses the palm of his hand to his head.

"I really don't want to hurt you, but if you don't show it to me then I'll do it myself."

"Like you could hurt me any more than you already have," I mutter under my breath.

He stares at me for a moment, waiting for my next move. But I don't make one.

He gives me almost an apologetic look as he grabs my wrist and yanks up my sleeve.